Warhammer 40K: Chaos Space Marines - The Path of Conquest!
by GeneralPen0412
Summary: It is the 41st millennium, and yet another battle is taking place! Now entering the final stages of the conquest the scions of the Emperor find themselves in a perilous situation as they engage their most hated of enemies; the traitors to humanity. Told from a first person's perspective; can the Emperors followers recover and carry the day, or will the legionaries of Chaos triumph?


**Hey everyone.**

I'm taking a short break from Gunray's Disposition due to writers block & so to keep my viewers satisfied I present another one off FanFiction.

Once again this is a short, one off story line. Except this time it will only be one chapter.

This story was one that I wrote some time ago for a small competition. I have made a few minor alterations but the plot is still essentially the same.

This story will be different from any of my other projects so far, as it will be written from a first person perspective.

Please feel free to check it out, and don't forget to R&R

 **Setting:** In the dark, war torn recesses of the forty first millennium, a Chaos Space Marine and his squad of brothers stand on the edge of victory, alongside the rest of his traitorous legion. Is there any hope for the decimated remnants of the Imperial garrison or will the emissaries of the Dark Gods carry the day?

This story is taken from the perspective of one such soldier, who marches along the path of conquest and glory in the name of the Warmaster.

 **Rating:** This story is rated T for teens, as it contains violence and mild gore. PLEASE BEAR THIS IN MIND BEFORE READING!

 **Disclaimer:** All of the characters and settings in this story are completely fictional and are of my own design. That being said, I do not own any of the races or factions associated with the Warhammer 40K universe.

Enjoy the FanFiction...

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 **Warhammer 40k: - The Path of Conquest!**

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The static is clearing; my helmets auto-senses are restoring themselves, enabling my vision to return. Shaking my head vigorously, I manage to reactivate the visor, finally piercing the darkness enabling my targeting scopes and other senses to reset themselves. Growling menacingly I raise my head to behold a most magnificent site. All around me a world is dying; its cities and citadels have been reduced to ruins. The warp storm overhead signifies the final stages of the invasion and the ascension of the ruinous powers, whilst the planets inhabitants are descending into anarchy, debauchery and above all else, slaughter!

Between us, the forces of light and darkness have turned this planet into a living alter!

Two members of my unit are dead, killed by the same explosion that temporarily rendered my sensors inactive. The remaining six however have survived, but are so busy taking pot shots at random enemy figures that they fail to pinpoint the wretch that was responsible for my temporary daze.

Not me however!

I see him clearly, standing twenty feet away, looking upon us, **no upon me** with fear as he stands amongst the bullet ridden remains of his own unit. With dawning comprehension he realises that not even his photon grenades were enough to stop us, nor save his sergeant and squad mates. Instead his desperate, so called act of "heroism" has left him exposed; open to return fire.

He turns away and tries to flee, back towards the makeshift shelter of the ruins; just like the cowardly whelp he is.

Perhaps he is trying to join up with another Guardsman unit. Maybe he is seeking better armaments or a better firing position. Alternatively, he might just keep on running, hoping to escape and avoid the inevitable. In any case it is clear that he intends to get away from the burning streets and open spaces, and take refuge from the ensuing nightmare.

More importantly however, he wants to get away from me!

 **It's almost too easy!**

A simple extension of the arm, decompression of the trigger and the coward is dead. Mouth still open in a wordless scream his body writhes slightly then topples, a small opening in his chest where my plasma round tore right through it. His body joins the sea of others, representing the endless tide of the dead. The majority (like the fool I just dispatched) wear a basic mould of durasteel and military helmet over a simple combat uniform. The remainder wear a thick, robust body suit of armour composed of concrete like ceramite, adamantium and plasteel, not too dissimilar from my own trappings.

This armour set signifies that the soldiers within were once something remarkable; something distinguishable, above and beyond the average human. They are weapons, forged through centuries of service, combat and endless sacrifice. This makes them uncompromising and (generally) unyielding. Forged for the benefit of mankind and the galactic Imperium that the marines inside this armour set once served.

Little good it has done them today though!

Along with the rest of the garrisons Guardsmen, the surviving members of the loyalist Space marines are giving ground but at a slower much more measured pace than the rest of their compatriots. As further squadrons form up on either side of our own, they are walking backwards, with their backs straight and heads held high. Their weapons are still trained on us, as we continue to exchange frequent bouts of volley fire.

There can be little doubt that the Imperial forces are falling back and retreating now, but to what end I wonder? From my previous engagements with our loathsome kin, I know that the loyalists usually prepare for any and every outcome. They would never leave anything to chance.

There can be little doubt that our enemy recognises that their defeat is imminent, but that does not usually deter a Space Marines resolve. Nor should it! Surely the survivors will be falling back to some predetermined destination, ready to make one final stand against us.

 _Good_ , I think savagely, glancing down at my still smoking pistol. _I could do with a little sport!_

A squad comprising six terminators forms up in the centre of the formation; the army commander and his retinue of bodyguards. With a maniacal laugh the Lord contemplates the slaughter; the burning fires are reflected and rippling off his armour set as he gestures forward. Amidst the innumerable explosions, chippings made by bolter rounds bouncing off thick armour, ceaseless battle cries and dying screams his orders are not heard. We require no instructions however...

... Cackling and shouting jubilantly the rest of the traitors start to surge forwards.

Briefly I turn away from the enemy battle lines and glance over my shoulder. "Come on!" I shout waving the rest of my squad forwards. Needing no encouragement we charge forwards at a run, volley fire ricocheting off of our body armour and shoulder pads. Then a member of my unit takes a round to the face and with a pain filled cry drops to the ground like a sack of meat. He is not the only one; others amongst the Chaos line are likewise slain or crippled dropping all around me. I do not care, nor does the remainder of the chaotic host. We simply carry on treading onto and over the bodies of the fallen, not caring whether they belong to friend or foe, dead or dying. Ours is the path of conquest, our march is now as unstoppable as it is unyielding.

Our ambition: glorification and slaughter!

A few of the more impatient individuals manage to get ahead of the main line, anxious to engage the enemy in close quarters. Most are the cultists; forsaken, weak minded and willed individuals that wear little to no armour that carry weapons of just about any description, though there are a few of the heavily clad Berserker's of Khorne are able to keep pace. The rest of us run at a slightly more leisured steady pace, but only marginally. For now, we exchange fire with the enemy when and where possible but we recognise that there is still some distance to go before the final confrontation takes place. So we keep on marching, our black and gold armour sticking out in stark contrast to the sea of dull red, charcoal grey and vibrant yellows now dominating the skies and scenery around us.

I step onto the body of the victim I had just slain, and a smile tugs at my features as I feel his bones crack beneath my treads. I keep on marching at the head of my squad, my right boot now stained in the crimson colours of another triumph.

Another tribute that the dark gods will surely be satisfied with!

As we swagger forwards I contemplate the true scale of the spectacle around me. The shattered buildings, the burnt out husks of tanks, broken turret remains, smashed aircrafts and the burning skies. All of it is a monument to our triumph!

To think that I had almost missed out on all of this. The actions of that one simple soldier could have almost robbed me not only of my vision, but potentially my life as well. Had I become one with the immaterial I would have been unable to contemplate the scenario and relish in the suffering around me. Getting it back was like waking from a deep trance, or a long invigorating sleep. _So much so_ I thought _that I am prepared to say this_ ; 'I'd woken up in some pretty strange situations before but this one took the prize'.

Not since the time of the great heresy have our kin been able to inflict so much pain and suffering in but a single conquest. Today, unlike then, _we_ shall stand triumphant. Here, on this world, we shall plant the dark banner, as our legion takes another glorious step upon its inevitable march to triumph in the name of the Warmaster and the Dark Gods, against the cannon fodder provided by the servants of the False Emperor.

We are reaching the frontlines now; I can see a stream of hand to hand skirmishes stretched out before us. Cultists and guardsmen drop like stones, whilst a few bulkier Space Marines put up some resistance, cutting down tides of enemies with serrated blades, each as long as man's arm or specialised combat chain saws. The dead are already uncountable, and that number continues to rise with every second.

 _So what!_

Let the piteous creatures die! That way the strong can survive in order for my brethren to cultivate and harvest them, to our end. In the end legion can only grow stronger and more numerous!

My squad begins to fan out. We exchange no words; there are no true ties of kinship between us. Aside from the sound of my ventilators and the battle itself, all is silent. Every man here knows he is dispensable, with a short part to play before his inevitable outcome. Only by his own intrepid skills and solidifying his faith can he stave off death this day.

As three of my team mates levels their bolt guns, myself, and the remaining two, which are likewise armed with combat weapons, charge forwards. Together we rain fire down upon the enemy, not caring that some of our brethren are caught in the crossfire. As we crash into the front lines we bring our combat weapons round to bear and the real conflict finally begins.

As I cut a swathe through the Imperial line, I notice their fallen banner lying in the dirt, its once beautiful, ornate colours already covered with soot, grime and what appears to be blood. I unleash a triumphant booming laughter, which makes all but the lionhearted Space Marines quiver with fear, as I recognise that the so-called 'God Emperor' truly has abandoned his acolytes this day.

Mind you, I myself once looked him with such reverence. I was once a servant and compliant preacher of the Imperium's lies. They told me it was my duty, to fight for the Emperor in order to help him unify humanity, so that we might help our species take its rightful place as the supreme power in the galaxy, under the accordance and guidance of The Imperial Truth.

 _Ha_ , I bark as my combat sword descends, slicing a reeling Guardsmen from his shoulder to his adjacent hip, releasing a fountain of blood.

 _That was in an age long forgotten;_ my plasma pistol meets the charging Space Marine, pointed straight at his head. As I discharge the now overheated weapon, the shot takes his face plates clean off.

 _I was a different individual back then, a pathetic obedient lap dog that simply did as he was instructed and received no credit or reward for his service and sacrifice_.

 _These days..._

The enemy sergeant makes a valiant final stand. As the last few survivors are cut down around us I am granted the honour of engaging the last known survivor of the Imperial garrison. The rest of the Chaos war-band scatters looking for survivors, though a few of their number forms up in a circle around us, anxious, waiting for blood to be spilled. They all wish to partake in the kill and when one marine steps forward to do just that, I shoot him in cold blood.

This kill is mine!

My actions harden the Space Marines resolve. With nothing to lose he comes at me with all his might. Like to savage, starved animals thrown to the fighting pits we strike, duck and parry matching each other almost blow for blow. For the most part our weapons either miss their targets or land glancing blows, scrapping off our shoulder pads and chest-plates. Whilst I wear a helmet he is facing battle without one, so I can see the look of savage concentration in his eye.

Having lost his own combat pistol he wraps both hands around the hilt of his weapon, and attacks with such force that I am forced to relinquish my own. He comes at me with such ferocity that I am barely able to counter. I take several paces back...

... then finding strong footing I push back with all of my might. He relinquishes a few steps and leaping forwards I am upon him. I strike left right, left right, front centre. He parries each of my attacks, until finally I sweep my long sword round in a graceful arc forcing his weapon down. In the split second it would take for him to recover, I bring my weapon round and impale him straight through the chest.

... _I am enlightened!_

Pushing my blade in all the way up the hilt I gaze down upon the dying Ultramarine. Relishing the look of pain on his part, and the fact that the Emperor has lost yet another of his lackey's this day, I reach around and place my hand upon the back of the soldiers thick shoulder pad. He is barely able to stand now, with the last few vestiges of life leaving him; I whisper these words to him.

"Thank you' for playing your part this day … brother!"

I pull free and he drops lifelessly to the floor. The spectators do not cheer as I stand triumphantly over the body of my fallen victim. After a moments contemplation I turn away from the body, relishing the moment and focusing on what is going on around me. Overhead several Chaos Heldrakes cut across the blood red sky, like carrion birds sniffing out their prey. The shrieking cries of their turbo engines signify the final triumph on this now conquered world.

Behind me a solitary figure ascends one of the burnt out building husks. Upon reaching the top most and sturdiest floors he raises a black banner adorned with the eight pronged Eye of Horus; solidifying our conquest.

As turns the rest of the Chaos horde turns towards the banner, pumping their fists and shouting jubilantly, I keep my back to it and simply gaze out across the horizon. As I stand amongst the burning ruins of a now demonic world, I seem as still and impervious as a statue. Barely discernible however, my red visors narrow to dangerous slits, mirroring the eyes concealed beneath the mask, as my face lights up with ecstasy and I smirk with triumph!

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 **The END!**

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There we go my first, well first person perspective FanFiction.

Hope you enjoyed it.

As you can tell I am not an over the top Warhammer 40k equipment specialist but I did enjoy writing this, and I will appreciate any comments that you might have.

Please let me know what you thought and I will get back to my original stories soon.

See you then!


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